


Cravings

by addicted2hugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person, Pining, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock Holmes Is Not Okay, Smut, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 02:32:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17634359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: Set after S4. The boys are living together again and all seems well, but Sherlock, still battling the demons of his past, finds it difficult to stay clean. To prevent a relapse, John does something extreme.





	Cravings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlockandjohn2010](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockandjohn2010/gifts).



> This is dedicated to a very dear friend of mine.  
> I hope you'll like this a bit, Kat! <3  
> (I swear I wasn't /trying/ to write smut - it just happened XD!)

_Hold on_ , John always says. _You're doing so well. Don't give up now._

He's doing so well.

John says it will get better. Easier.

_I promise, Sherlock. It'll be over soon. You'll be okay._

But John has no idea.

They're living together again, have been doing so for three months now, but the old feeling of connectedness, of understanding each other without having to talk, without having to _look_ at each other even, has not really reappeared.

_Yet._

Sherlock hopes.

He knows it might never come back, but he pushes that thought away to the very back of his mind whenever it rears its ugly head. Most of the time he manages, but today is one of _those_ days. No case to distract him, not even one of Lestrade's ridiculously simple ones. Not even a _two_. Rosie's teething. She screams almost every night, and even though Sherlock is not in the habit of resting regularly, it's slowly taking its toll on him.

He needs it to stop. The restlessness. The visions of his past, his sister, Victor, and the memories of Mary, and blood, and the morgue, and the pain. The emptiness inside his skull that makes the idle whirring of the unoccupied gears of his mind seem all the louder. The heartache.

The emotions he never allowed himself to feel until it was too late and everything was broken beyond repair.

But he can't seem to find relief. He wants to just pass out so badly, yearns for the silence and blessed hollowness of sleep, but he's aware that it won't come to him unless he helps the process along.

He could go over to Billy's, just one last time. Just to get him through it, through this difficult phase in their lives – just to help him to not lose it completely. Just until Rosie feels better and settles down, until John is no longer so tired and so easily irritable. Until he's learned how to deal with it all. He knows he shouldn't, but his yearning is so strong. It's overruling his head. He won't use needles; that would be too much. No, he'll get himself a few pills, a small emergency stack – doesn't mean he'll take them. It will be good to know they're there. Just in case.

He's put on his coat and scarf before he even realises that he's moving, and it's so easy to reach for his gloves and take that last step across the threshold.

So easy.

On the stairs, he runs into John.

_Oh no._

"Hey," John greets him. "Going out?"

He's so exhausted. He can't quite meet his gaze, can't pretend the way he usually does. So he just nods. The prospect of imminent delivery from his demons flickers and vanishes into thin air in front of his inner eye, and he has to clench his jaw not to scream. He needs it now. There's no other way. He _needs_ it.

John smiles tiredly.

"Want me to come? I just took Rosie to Molly's. She's taken pity on us. I'm free for a few hours."

There might still be a way to distract him, get rid of him.

"You need to sleep, John."

That's good. Reasonable. There are dark circles under John's weary eyes. He looks terrible.

His amused snort sends a tiny shiver down his spine.

"You too."

He has to end this conversation here and now.

"You know I don't rely on sleep the way a--- a normal person---"

He breaks off, because right then the look in John's eyes changes, becomes un-deducible all of a sudden, and his brain stutters to an abrupt halt.

"You need to sleep," John says slowly, almost tenderly. "Don't go out now. Go to sleep."

Why does he have to make it so hard for him?

"I can't, John."

I can't I _CAN'T_ \---

"Go to sleep. Come with me."

John's hand is soft and warm as he puts it on his cheek, and Sherlock's system, unfamiliar with physical contact of this kind, doesn't know what to do with the sensation. He shudders. The wave runs through his body from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, leaving him trembling. He can't remember the last time someone touched him like this. Might have been Mrs Hudson. Might as well have been Mummy, years and years ago.

"Come," John whispers, his ocean eyes boring into Sherlock's with such intensity that he forgets how to breathe, how to think, how to stand upright and not fall to his knees in front of him. "Don't go. Come with me. Come upstairs with me."

Sherlock's mind, or the last tiny part of it that's still working properly, goes into overdrive, frantically attempting the impossible task of figuring out what this is, what this means, what John is doing to him.

John's thumb is like a whisper against his cheekbone, like the softest of kisses, like safety and trust and _home_.

Sherlock nods.

\---

He's standing in front of the hooks on the wall that hold his coat and scarf, looking at the two items of clothing he's just taken off. He feels stupid and lost. He's out of his depths. He can't bring himself to turn around.

"Good, Sherlock. That's good."

John is looking at him, studying his profile, and it's irritating as well as weirdly exciting. It's been ages since John last looked at him like this. Like he's the most important, the most fascinating thing in the world to him.

"You're doing so well," John whispers.

He reaches out, Sherlock can see it from out of the corner of his eye, and puts his hand on his shoulder. Holds on tight.

Pressure. Warmth. John's fingerprints burning themselves into his flesh through expensive silk.

"It'll be alright."

Sherlock's breathing accelerates, and his pulse along with it.

"Ssshhh," John murmurs soothingly. "It's okay."

_It's okay._

John steps behind him and begins to rub his back with long, slow strokes, both of his hands sliding up and down the fabric of his shirt in a bizarre kind of impromptu massage, and somehow he manages to stop wondering what this is. It's calming and confusing at the same time, but he's not as scared of it anymore. He just stands there and lets it happen.

Up…

Down.

Again.

And again.

His shoulders slumping, relaxing into the sensation, he closes his eyes. The gloves he's still holding slip out of his grasp and drop to the floor. He doesn't care.

It's okay.

His heart is stumbling, but it's okay.

On the next upwards caress, John lets his hands travel further, up to the nape of his neck and then into his hair, and Sherlock draws a long, shaky breath and feels his legs wobble in response to the touch. John's blunt nails scrape his scalp, massage it gently, but with enough pressure to set his nerve endings alight with pleasure.

"Come upstairs with me," John says again, his voice deep and thick like velvet and sweet, forbidden things. "I know where you were about to go, Sherlock. What you were about to do."

Sherlock's lids flutter open again and he stares at the wall.

_Are you mad at me?_

_Are you going to punish me?_

He still can't speak. John keeps touching him. Makes small circles with his thumbs, ghosts his fingertips along the shells of his ears. Breathes against his back, warm and comforting.

"It'll be alright," John repeats, and despite himself, Sherlock believes him.

John pushes him, very carefully, in the direction of the stairs that lead up to his bedroom. Sherlock allows him to. 

Up until the moment John touched his back he thought he'd never want anything more than he wants the drugs, the hazy fog of forgetting, of peace and quiet and warmth, to be enjoyed all by himself, wrapped up inside the comforting blanket of his high mind.

He's surprised to find that he wants _this_ more.

\---

John takes off his clothes, then helps him to take off his own, and he tries to participate somehow, but feels clumsy and like his limbs do not belong to him anymore.

John gasps soundlessly when he sees the scars, but doesn't ask, doesn't break the almost reverent silence encompassing them. He trails the red, gnarly ridges with his fingers as if memorising them, so gently, and his touch takes some of the phantom pain that's still lingering there away.

Sherlock is a little nervous because he doesn't like being looked at while naked, without his armour consisting of impeccable designer outfits and perfectly groomed hair, but for some reason it's not so bad now – mostly because it's _John_ , he reckons, and because John is naked too and staring at him with so much affectionate hunger that he's not sure how to meet the expectations he senses hiding behind that blazing gaze.

"Lie down with me," John says lowly, takes his hand, and pulls him towards the bed.

They lie down.

Everything inside this room, this bed, is unfamiliar to Sherlock – what the sheets feel like against his bare skin, the street sounds trickling in through the window, a bit more muted than they would seem from his own bedroom one floor below, the various scents that make up the complex aroma of John Watson, so much more intense and concentrated here than anywhere else in the flat. He tries to file it all away for later reference, because nothing is a more interesting object of study than John John _John_ , and now he's got neither the time nor the nerve to evaluate the data that's crashing in on him from all sides.

And then John kisses him, and that's another thing altogether.

He kisses with his whole body, Sherlock notices, coaxing his mouth open and licking into it again and again, tilting his head this way and that, each new angle giving him new sensations of blissful intimacy of a sort he's never known before, and he desperately tries to keep up and give back, but John's technique and the fact that his own experience with situations like this is limited (or almost non-existing, if he's being completely honest, since it mostly consists of theory rather than practice) make it difficult to reciprocate the way he's sure he's supposed to. 

His skin, over-sensitive due to fatigue, tingles everywhere they touch, and John only intensifies the feeling when he clambers between his legs and rubs his whole front against his, all the way from chest to groin. Sherlock moans lowly, and John gives a deep chuckle and buries the fingers of his left hand in his hair, rocking his hips with small, slow thrusts that drive Sherlock insane.

The onslaught of it all is almost too much for him, even though he wouldn't stop doing this, touching John, kissing John, for the world. Even if it drives him out of his mind. Even if they'll never do this again after today.

John's mouth tastes fantastic.

John's body is gloriously warm and smooth and compact in his arms.

John's penis is so hard, so hot and silky and _there_ , nestled into the tight space between their bodies, and he wonders what would happen if he reached down and---

"You can touch," John mutters and nibbles his way along his jaw and down to the side of his neck, and Sherlock realises that his hand has strayed towards John's flank out of its own accord, his fingers skimming the outer edge of his abdomen, and it's clear which direction it really wants to take, even though Sherlock would swear that he doesn't have a say in the matter right now.

He's never done anything like this before.

"Mmhhh," John hums when Sherlock allows his hand free rein, and then he pushes himself up onto his knees, lifts his lower body a bit to give him better access, his lips still attached to Sherlock's pulse point. "Yes…"

Sherlock explores.

This feels nothing like when he does it on his own, not even remotely. For one thing, John feels different – thicker than himself, and slightly shorter, Sherlock finds as he strokes up and down loosely to get a feeling for him, and there's a curve to his length that would probably be perfect to hit---

He stops himself before he can finish the thought.

Sherlock has experimented. He wouldn't be himself if he hadn't, and even though the idea of allowing another person to witness him in that state of vulnerability has always mortified him, he knows his body and what it can do if touched the right way.

But this is John, and he doesn't know what John wants, and he's so practised in the art of self-protection that he doesn't allow himself the idea of ever going all the way with him.

He focusses on the now instead and lets his fingers slip further down to cup John's testicles, kneads them gently, feels their plump weight rest in his palm, and John hums again and raises his head to look at him, a punch-drunk expression on his face, his eyes glazed over with desire.

Sherlock runs the tip of his middle finger against John's perineum, back and forth, a feather-light touch that he knows he himself likes a lot, and goose-bumps spread all over John's arms. It's a mesmerising sight, and Sherlock takes him in and does it again.

John closes his eyes and bites his lip, his brow knitting in what looks like concentration. He's gone very quiet by now.

Emboldened by the reactions his ministrations provoke, Sherlock moves his finger down the rest of the way and up the cleft of John's arse, brushing his opening, and John bites his lip harder at that and huffs out a series of staccato breaths through his nose. His legs begin to shake against Sherlock's thighs.

"You're gorgeous," Sherlock breathes, and the sound of his own voice startles him – and John as well, apparently, because he gasps and opens his eyes again.

They look at each other, and time stops.

Sherlock has always known that he's infatuated with John, right since the very beginning, even though he'd _never_ have assumed that John would ever return the sentiment – or that he himself would ever be able to express it.

John's skin is so very tender against the pad of Sherlock's finger, and only now does he realise what they're doing here, what _he's_ doing, being allowed to touch him like this, and, suddenly light-headed and overwhelmed, he reaches for him with his free hand and grabs his upper arm.

"John," he rasps.

John's pupils are so wide that they make his irises look black.

"I want you," he says hoarsely, and Sherlock deduces that he's shaken by the moment too.

"I don't know how," Sherlock tells him and swallows.

He hopes John will understand, because he really can't deal with this or, heaven forbid, take the lead. Nothing has been making sense in the last few months, nothing at all – he doesn't know who he is anymore, or what he wants, and sometimes he isn't even sure whether the life he's been leading up to know has been entirely real. Maybe there are more things he's made up for himself, like Redbeard, and maybe there are more things he's chosen to forget, like Eurus. Now the last thing he thought he knew about himself – the fact that he doesn't do things like this, that he doesn't feel things the same way normal people do – is proving to be wrong, since he _is_ doing it all right now, and feeling it, too, _God_ , how he's feeling it.

Has John done this before, with other men? Sherlock can't tell, and it's unsettling.

The corner of John's mouth twitches upwards in a brief smile.

"It's okay," he replies.

He lowers himself back down again, and Sherlock puts his arms around him, enjoying his body heat seeping into his own system and grounding himself to the presence of the only human being he trusts with all his heart, despite everything that happened.

"Just do what feels good," John says, his voice rough, and kisses him on the lips, then on his cheekbone. "Just---" He thrusts against him, aligning their erections, and moans deeply. "Like that."

Sherlock has never heard him sound like this before, but he loves it, and he loves being the reason for it.

He holds on to John when he begins to establish a rhythm, presses his heels into the mattress to give him leverage, and after a minute or two his mind goes blank. He stops thinking about doing things wrong, of losing control, of losing himself in this. Maybe it's supposed to feel like that, even. What does he know?

John's face is buried in the crook of his neck, and he's groaning into it, licking, kissing, _biting_ his burning skin, and Sherlock listens to his own heartbeat hammering behind his ribs and to John's soft, urgent sounds of pleasure, and then John suddenly rubs his cheek against his, his afternoon stubble scraping Sherlock's own, and looks at him, nose to nose, his face so close that it's swimming in front of Sherlock's eyes. He's still moving his hips, his hands clenching and unclenching around Sherlock's shoulders, his panting moans hot and sweet against Sherlock's tongue.

"Sherlock, oh _God_ \--- Sherlock," he presses out breathlessly. " _Sherlock_."

Their foreheads slip-slide against each other, their sweat mingling, prickling on Sherlock's skin, and then John kisses him again, deeply and completely without system, and speeds up his pace. It's tight and wet and messy and the best thing that has ever happened to him, and when he hears someone utter a high-pitched, drawn-out, _whining_ moan and realises that it's him, he's not embarrassed at all.

John bites down on his bottom lip, sucks it between his teeth to run the tip of his tongue along it in a possessive, filthy, unbelievably sensual manner, and then pulls back slightly to lock eyes with him. Sherlock falls upwards and into him, his brain giving up. It feels like fainting. Inside him, the burning ache of his lust is coiling up tightly, almost to the point of pain, and he grabs John's hips, his sides, his restless fingers slipping on sweaty skin and failing to get a grasp and finally settling for his buttocks instead, digging into them, kneading, pulling, and John groans and claims his mouth once more.

"Come," he pants into the kiss. "Come with me."

Faster, _faster_ , and it's like his body has only been waiting for permission to let go. He's so close, _so close_ to release.

" _Come_ ," John repeats.

Sherlock sobs.

Then everything around him turns black.

\---

When Sherlock wakes up, he's alone in John's bed.

He feels disoriented and it takes him a while to figure out what happened and why he's naked under the duvet and why the air around him smells like sweat and sex and _John_.

He glances at the clock on the bedside table. It's almost midnight, which means that he's just slept for about six hours. He can't remember the last time he managed that. He's thirsty, and, to his great surprise, hungry as well.

Where's John?

He gets up and sees that John has folded his clothes and put them on the chair in the corner before he left. His insides in complete disarray in the face of this gesture of concern?affection? _more???_ , he gets dressed and then leaves the room to make his way downstairs.

When he enters the living-room, he finds John and Rosie on the couch, the former looking worn-out, but content, the latter chewing on a teething ring and sending him a slightly feverish, red-cheeked smile.

"Hey," John says. "Look who it is, sweetheart."

Sherlock licks his dry lips and walks over to them, but doesn't sit down. He's not sure how to behave. Should he bend down and kiss John? Is he intruding on something here? Should he pretend nothing happened? Should he ask John what it _was_ that happened?

"Did you sleep well?" John asks. "I've been trying to keep her from crying so as not to disturb you."

Sherlock inclines his head.

"Yes. Thank you. That's very… considerate of you."

"Do you feel better? Did it--- help?"

There it is again, the look he can't deduce.

Did it help?

"I feel rested," he answers, for want of something better to say.

John nods.

Suddenly, Sherlock feels like he should run from this, from all of it.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" he asks.

He needs something to do, or he'll go insane.

John smiles.

"That would be brilliant."

\---

They do not talk about it.

Sherlock looks through his e-mails for cases and John sips his tea, and eventually John goes upstairs to put Rosie to bed and go to sleep himself, and Sherlock stays at his desk, wide awake and confused, scrolling through his list of potential clients without really registering what he's reading.

His hunger has disappeared, being replaced by nausea and a hollow throbbing somewhere deep inside his body.

_Did it help?_

He doesn't want to get high as badly anymore, so yes, it did.

Was that all John was trying to achieve? Or did it mean something?

Is he patient enough to wait and find out?

He rubs his face and imagines he can still smell John all over himself, and it gives him a twinge of bittersweet pain to remember what John looked like when he found his completion in his arms. What it felt like to doze off, his head still filled with white noise and impossible colours, their legs still entangled, John's tousled hair tickling his chin. _So_ beautiful.

He gets up and lies down on the couch and goes to his mind palace to sort through the images and scents and sounds of whatever it was that happened to him – to _them_ – in John's bedroom.

It takes him all night.

\---

They get a case the next morning, and Sherlock slips into deduction mode and stops eating or trying to sleep altogether for a few days, and it's good. He doesn't think about John and _that night_ , and John doesn't mention it. He trails along on investigations whenever he finds the time and someone to look after Rosie, and they have tea and takeaway that John forces on him more or less successfully, and it's okay – it really is.

Sherlock has got used to the fact that his body still wants the kick – despite telling his brother and everyone else who cares to listen that he's a _user_ , not an _addict_ , he's well aware that that is not really true. He knows that solving crimes is his first addiction, and that he can manage as long as the cases keep coming, but that it gets bad the moment he's free of the challenge, and that the drugs help with that, that they ease the strain and make life bearable until the next riddle comes along.

He's not sure he'll ever be over it, even though he knows he has to try to make John stay. He couldn't cope if John went away again, if he left him here to his own devices. He'd probably do something very, very stupid.

And it has got better, hasn't it?

Sherlock looks at John, over there at the other end of the room, typing away on his laptop, and decides that yes, it has got much better.

Maybe John is right and it will be okay.

\---

He makes a mistake. He misses a clue and a woman gets hurt, and he could have prevented it, _easily_ , but he didn't, and now she's in hospital and he's at home, pacing the flat like a wild animal in its cage.

John tells him not to beat himself up over it, and Sherlock shouts at him and bangs some doors, and then Mrs Hudson comes upstairs and complains about the noise and it's all just too much TOO MUCH.

He storms off and into his bedroom and throws himself onto the bed, his head buried in his pillow. He needs it all to stop. Why don't they just let him be? Why isn't he allowed to numb the ache?

He doesn't know how long he's been lying there in agony when the door opens with a small creak and soft steps approach the bed.

He opens one eye.

It's John.

John, who is wearing only a dressing gown, open at the front, and nothing underneath except his perfect, golden skin. John, who is putting items on his bedside table – a bottle of lubricant, a packet of condoms, and a baby monitor.

It's so absurd that Sherlock doesn't know whether he should laugh or be alarmed.

The dressing gown makes a whispering sound as it slithers to the floor, and then John is in bed with him, smooth and firm, his hands already wandering even before their lips meet in a kiss that's far from chaste or careful.

They fit together perfectly.

It doesn't hurt as much as he expected it to, and the pleasure John gives him soon eradicates the pain.

So much pleasure.

John makes him forget.

And if he, already half-asleep, feels a twinge of sadness afterwards, when John gathers up his things and leaves to go to bed, it's not nearly as bad as when he was lying here, craving for his pills.

Not nearly as bad.

\---

The case gets solved eventually, and the woman recovers, and everything is fine, fine, _fine_ , but Sherlock is bored already, and in the evening the three of them have dinner and then Sherlock does the dishes while John reads Rosie a bedtime story, and afterwards John takes a shower and Sherlock decides that he's going to ask for it this time, before it gets worse.

He walks in on him just like that, naked, and joins him under the warm spray, and John is surprised, but goes along with it.

They end up in Sherlock's bed again, because the shower is too small and slippery and Sherlock wants the real thing, all that John can give, and John makes sure that he gets everything he wants and more.

For the briefest of moments, he wonders whether it's a good idea to replace one addiction with another like this, with one that could destroy his life completely if he ever went too far, but John's fingers and his mouth and his lovely, lovely voice drive that thought out of his mind before it gets the chance to manifest itself.

He gives himself over to it completely, drinks it in, drowns in it, and when he finally reaches the edge and flings himself over it and into the abyss, the endorphin high is so strong that he passes out for a while.

\---

When he comes to again, John is just about to sneak out of the room. Sherlock knew that he wouldn't stay and tries to ignore the sting of disappointment the sight of John's bare, sweat-slick form disappearing through his door provokes in him. He watches him go and hopes he'll drift off soon, but then John stops in mid-stride and freezes, a mere sliver of him still visible through the half-open door, and even Sherlock's sex-muddled brain can tell that he's fighting a battle with himself. He's probably weighing the pros and cons of whatever it is that they're doing here, probably asking himself how best to tell Sherlock that it's better if they stop while they still can.

It takes him forever to decide.

When he turns around again and comes back inside, Sherlock squeezes his eyes shut and pretends to doze, bracing himself for the rejection he's sure will follow. How did he ever think they'd be okay like this?

_Stupid._

The mattress dips when John sits down next to him, his smell the most delicious thing Sherlock's ever known, and he's glad that he's had the presence of mind to collect and save samples of it, and of everything else connected to this new facet of their relationship, for later use – it means that when it's over, he'll still be able to go back to the memories, to John's special room in his mind palace, which by now contains a large bed too, and revel in them whenever real life gets too much.

"Sherlock," John whispers. "Are you awake?"

He could simply not react. Maybe John will change his mind.

"Sherlock?"

Chiding himself for giving in so easily, he opens his lids. John blinks as if startled, then sends him a crooked, nervous smile.

"Hey," he breathes, then clears his throat. The next words come out louder, a bit firmer. "I'm--- I thought---"

He breaks off again and chuckles helplessly. Despite everything, Sherlock's heart goes out to him at that. He looks so lost. If he had the right words, if he was any good at this at all, he might even help him to get it over with, to dump him and move on.

But he's not good at this.

So he just waits.

John reaches out and brushes an errant curl out of his forehead, tucks it behind his ear, and Sherlock's whole body is covered in goose-bumps immediately.

"I was wondering whether you'd like to--- to come and sleep in my bed?" he then says. "With me, I mean. I mean, just _sleep_ \--- we don't have to--- oh, _bollocks!_ " He bites the inside of his cheek, his gaze turning desperate, like he's regretting bringing the topic up in the first place. "I'm rubbish at this… I'm sorry." 

Sherlock has trouble processing this.

"You… want me to sleep beside you tonight?" he asks slowly, hesitantly.

John shrugs.

"And tomorrow," he says, barely audibly.

Sherlock feels dizzy, but nods and pushes himself up into a sitting position.

"You want to?" John asks, and he sounds so amazed and hopeful that Sherlock's stomach clenches.

He's scared of this, of what John wants, or _thinks_ he wants, and he's scared for his own sanity, because what if it doesn't work out? What if he does it wrong? What if John gets fed up with him after a while?

What if John leaves?

The mere idea makes him break out in cold sweat, and he fights down the panic starting to constrict his chest.

He knows there never was a choice.

"Yes," he says, and this simple response seems much too trivial, given the enormity of the moment, but he's at a loss for words, and John probably doesn't know that he's just put his life in his hands, so it's okay.

John exhales a sigh that sounds very much like relief, then tilts his head and nuzzles his face. Sherlock leans into him and allows it, and for a minute or two they just sit there quietly, breathing the same air.

"Good," John then says and pulls away to look at Sherlock.

He's not smiling anymore, but there's something soft in his gaze that Sherlock can't read.

_It's okay._

John gets up, holding out his hand.

"Come."

Sherlock does.


End file.
